


Oil and Ink

by 221b_hound



Series: Captains of Industry [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Hipsters, Anal Sex, Cobbler Greg/biker Greg, M/M, Motorcycle Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Tailor Mycroft, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:11:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Gregory like playing games. Saucy games. Games involving toys and naughty underwear and pretending to be people they’re not (who are also rather close to the people they are) while dressing the part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oil and Ink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Burning_Up_A_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/gifts).



> Written from a prompt in the MIllion Word Festival: " AU Hipster Mystrade. AU meaning Australia. Although the other AU is correct." from Burning Up a Sun.
> 
> I did research for this one. Selfless research. I watched motorbike porn, most of it disappointing (bike in the background, not as a prop) to check the logistics of not falling off it. I provided Atlin with a live commentary as I did. :)

Mycroft and Gregory like playing games. _Saucy_ games. Games involving toys and naughty underwear and pretending to be people they’re not (who are also rather close to the people they are) while dressing the part.

Sometimes they signal their intent to play with the subtlety of a hammer – Greg giving Mycroft a flash of his lace-up leather cock-pouch panties at work for example – and sometimes the signal is more discreet.

Sometimes, for example, Greg leaves the door leading from the garage into their Fitzroy house ajar with a bandana hanging off the silver handle.

When Mycroft sees the bandana this Saturday morning, his eyes light up, because they haven’t played these roles in a while. They’re not as young as they were the first time they played this game, but Greg’s still strong, and his new motorbike has a broad seat and sturdy wheels and should have admirable stability if Greg has bolted it into the clamps properly. And Greg would do that, because last time, he was the one who ended up on crutches for a fortnight when the damned thing began to tip over.

Mycroft deposits the milk, the fresh Philippa’s sourdough bread rolls, the vine-ripened organic tomatoes and the Millawa goat’s cheese he picked up from the market in the fridge, and goes upstairs for a swift but thorough shower. To change into his _persona_.

He emerges from their bedroom in a pair of charcoal grey slacks, pale blue cotton Phillips shirt buttoned up to his Adam’s apple, with a dark green cardigan over that. His unsocked feet are in a pair of dark brown loafers. He has combed his hair to look a bit preppy. He’s almost forty, but that doesn’t matter a damn. Right now, he’s a preppy university kid trying to make money selling electricity plans door to door. Respectful; eager to please; easily impressed.

Passing by the office, Mycroft picks up a clipboard, then approaches the door to the garage, which itself leads to a cramped space no good for gardening, just room enough to open the gate to the old night cart alley behind the house to get the bike out.

He calls out: ‘Hello! Is there anyone home? Your front door was open…’

‘In here!’

Greg’s voice is strong and very Australian but also warm and friendly.

‘Hello?’

‘Come on through, kid. I won’t bite!’

Mycroft knows for a fact that this is a lie. He smiles, then schools the anticipation down to that shy and slightly nervous demeanour. He opens the door to the garage and stands there, the clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield, to take in the setting.

The garage is squarish, lit by three bright bulbs overhead. Nearest the closed rear door is a gleaming new BMW motorbike, clamped to the floor. Beside it is a tall, handsome man who has been fiddling about with the engine. The handsome man’s brown eyes sweep over the interloper in a brash, wanton appraisal.

Their garage is mostly a storage room for household projects, like the chairs they are repainting, and contains storage units well away from the motorbike half of the space, where they keep the leather. Bolts of fabric usually are stowed in the upstairs spare room until required.

Mycroft does not care for anything, however, except the vision of Greg Lestrade, silver-haired now but still stunningly beautiful, in oil-stained jeans, black Blundstones and a leather jacket worn over a torn and faded band T-shirt. _The Angels._ How apt.

Greg is wiping his hands clean on a rag. His hands are tanned and well kept, but callused where he works the leather. When Mycroft first met him, the calluses came from a bass guitar, too. Greg still plays sometimes. That’s a completely different game.

‘Good… good morning, sir,’ says Mycroft, nervous-polite.

‘Hey.’ Greg grins at him, more than friendly now. This headily masculine man is looking at the nervous student with a lustful twinkle. ‘What’s your name, then, beautiful?’

Mycroft’s flustered stammering here is not wholly feigned. He is still astonished that Greg thinks him beautiful, _calls_ him beautiful, treats him as though he’s worth that name. Mycroft always had a healthy self-regard, and he knows he has a first-rate mind, but he did not ever consider himself a catch because of his _looks_.

“M-M-Michael. Sir.’

Greg smiles at him, a very wicked smile. ‘Like the archangel.’

‘I-I…’

‘I’m Gary. Gaz to my friends.’

‘Hi. Um. Gary.’

‘Call me Gaz.’

‘G-gaz. Hello.’

‘Hi.” Another lazy, sexy smile.

Greg is so confident in this part, striding towards the shy boy in his boots and jeans that show off his arse below the leather jacket, and the T-shirt that clings to his pecs and stomach. Greg still works out, but he seems to adore that Mycroft is softer – not unfit, but not as taut as Greg. Greg has often nudged his face into Mycroft’s belly and thighs and licked and kissed him and rutted against him with such glorious abandon that it’s absolutely obvious that Greg likes Mycroft’s body just as it is.

Mycroft likes Greg’s body. He _loves_ Greg’s body. Mycroft thinks it wouldn’t matter if Greg were smooth or hairy, muscle-bound or sleekly understated or even soft as a marshmallow. Mycroft Holmes loves Greg Lestrade down to the chromosomal level, so _of course_ he loves Greg’s body.

But he admits that right now, his own body loves Greg’s body like this. Fit and strong and purposeful.

Greg stops in front of Mycroft and cups his chin in his hand. Greg’s hand smells of engine oil and virile perspiration, and Mycroft’s cock is thickening just at the scent of him. The nearness of him.

‘You’re a lovely little thing,’ says Greg softly, ‘Do you know anything about motor bikes?’

“N-no, sir. I mean Gary… Gaz. No, I don’t.’

From here, Mycroft can see Greg’s AC/DC shoulder tattoo showing just above the neck of his T. Greg has a lot of tattoos, many from when he was a rock and roll biker guy in his youth. A cobweb sprawls over his elbow; a skull with flaming eyes is on his right calf; he’s got a half sleeve on the left, of a motorbike bursting out of the words **_Rock and Roll!!._** A guitar is tattooed on his right wrist and, on his left foot, a stylised Harley.

Greg has added only two other tatts since those early days of ink: the winged jewel on his back, and the umbrella on his chest, open over his heart. The last two were done by Nath Holden, who also did Mycroft’s tattoos.

‘Would you like me to teach you how to ride?’ says Greg suggestively, crowded up close to Mycroft, breath warm against Mycroft’s ear. The clipboard is pressed between them.

‘I’d like that. G-gaz. W-will you teach me how to ride?’ Mycroft puts just the right spin on his voice there, making it sound young and inexperienced and naïve and _oh so willing_ _to learn_.

‘Come on then,’ says Greg. He tosses the clipboard into a corner and takes Mycroft by the hand.

He begins by kissing Mycroft. He holds Mycroft’s face in his strong, oil-scented hands and kisses his lips and brushes their noses together and presses his mouth to the corners of Mycroft’s eyes, and to the corners of his mouth, and to his lips, and then flicks his tongue out. And Mycroft opens up to him, surrendering and moaning.

‘You’re a lovely boy, Michael,’ says Greg softly, ‘You’re an angel.’

‘I’m a politics student,’ Mycroft says breathily, and then goes pliant against Greg again and parts his lips for the exploring kiss that he wants now exactly as much as he wanted it the very first time. When Greg smears his lips down Mycroft’s jaw and throat, Mycroft says, in a slightly panicked young voice, ‘I’m supposed to be selling electricity.’

Greg nips at Mycroft’s jaw, and his lips, not hard, and he grins like the devil and says, ‘I’m buying. All that unused electricity of yours. Everything you’ve got.’

He pulls Mycroft close and kisses him, deep, passionate, licking into his mouth and tugging Mycroft closer still so their bodies are flush together.

Greg crowds Mycroft back against the motor bike. He grinds his whole body against the gasping politics students, rubbing his hard-on trapped in his jeans against the student’s equally hard cock inside the charcoal slacks. Mycroft whimpers and thrusts and holds onto Greg’s arms. The leather creaks under his grasping fingertips, is warm and sensuous against his palms. The feel of it makes him pant and moan and cling, gasping, while he stands wider to let this big, bad, biker boy hump between his thighs.

‘Say a prayer, angel,’ Greg mutters, then sucks a bruise into Mycroft’s offered throat.

‘Dear god, please, please, please, take me,’ pleads Mycroft, ‘Have me. Dear God, please!’

‘Good boy,’ growls Greg, ‘Off with this, you pretty thing.’ Greg pushes the cardigan off Mycroft’s shoulders and throws it somewhere over his shoulder. He tugs the pale blue shirt from the waistband, seizes each side of it and gives a sharp pull, sending buttons flying.

Greg licks a stripe from Mycroft’s navel to his chin, then takes Mycroft’s mouth in a hungry kiss. Mycroft moans and tilts his head back and clings onto Greg’s shoulders and lets himself be taken. He humps against Greg’s crotch too, grinding against him. When he briefly has his mouth back – Greg is bite-nibbling Mycroft’s right nipple – Mycroft gasps, ‘Oh, god, please!’ and Greg unfastens the button and zip of the slacks and pulls them down to Mycroft’s thighs.

‘Shoes. Off.’

Mycroft kicks his shoes off. He stands on the cool, oil-stained concrete floor. He feels utterly exposed, utterly at Greg’s mercy, and he loves it, he loves it, oh god oh god, he loves it.

Greg crouches briefly to pull the slacks right off, leaving Mycroft stark naked, leaning against the silver-and-red-painted tank of the motor bike.

‘Mmm. You are a delicious angel, aren’t you?’ Greg isn’t waiting for an answer. He parts his lips and suckles the head of Mycroft’s cock.

Mycroft can only just hold himself up with one hand on the bike’s handlebars, the other on the seat of the bike, as he rocks into Greg’s mouth. ‘Please, please, please,’ he pants, ‘I want to ride.’

Greg sucks Mycroft’s whole length and then releases him and kisses his soft belly, licking his navel. He licks and sucks Mycroft’s right nipple, then the left, over which is tattooed a guitar. Greg slides his hands around Mycroft to hold and squeeze his arse while he sucks and bites on Mycroft’s ear.

‘Please, sir, please,’ chants Mycroft.

Greg holds Mycroft by the hips and kisses him commandingly again, then caresses Mycroft’s thighs. On Mycroft’s left thigh is the tattoo of the tailor’s scissors, golden ornate handles and silver blades offset by the purple flower behind them.

Greg licks Mycroft’s nipples, then his throat, then kisses along his collarbone and scrapes his teeth over the tattoo of the robin and teacup on Mycroft’s upper right arm.

‘You’re a beautiful boy, Michael,’ says Greg huskily, ‘You’re going to be such a fast learner.’ He seizes Mycroft by the waist (Mycroft pushes up too, to help the lift – it’d be stupid to let Greg injure his back at this stage of the proceedings) and then Mycroft is sitting naked on the seat of the motorbike, his back resting on the luggage pod.

‘Feet up here,’ Greg crooks Mycroft’s feet against the tank, so Mycroft is splayed, knees bent, hard cock standing up from the gingery curls of his crotch, ‘Good boy.’ Greg bends his head to suck his angel’s prick some more.

Now Mycroft has to sort of grip the glossy paintwork of the tank with his bare feet and bend his arms back to hold on to the pod while he tries not to thrust into Greg’s mouth. The bike is secure in the clamps but that doesn’t mean Mycroft can’t slide right off the seat if he’s too enthusiastic.

(In another version of this game, “Mechanic Geoff” is mostly naked on the seat, wearing only his leather jacket, his bare feet flexing on the tank, pinching his own nipples and fondling his own balls and cock, while “Home Secretary Michaels”, fully decked out in a three piece suit and hat and umbrella, issues crisp, posh, precise commands on what Greg must do and when and how hard, and not allowed to come until Mycroft says so. And then he has to kneel, wrecked, on the mat and suck Mycroft off without leaving a single stain on the suit. They both adore that game, too.)

Mycroft is squirming and begging and clinging onto the bike for dear life and pressing his backside down on the seat so he doesn’t just grab onto Greg’s head and hump into his mouth for all he’s worth. When he’s nearly crying with the teasing pleasure, Greg lets Mycroft’s cock slip from his lips with a soft slurping sound, before he kisses the sticky crown of him, licks it, and relinquishes it at last.

Greg grins at the sight of Mycroft, naked, flushed, incoherent with lust and spread out for him on the bike. Greg takes off his leather jacket, finally, and folds it behind Mycroft’s head. He takes off his boots. He strips off his T-shirt, revealing most of his tatts, and places it across the tank and the front of the seat. Then he kisses Mycroft. When Mycroft clasps his hands to Greg’s ribs and starts to kiss his hairy chest, Greg holds Mycroft’s head tenderly close, and Mycroft sucks on Greg’s nipples, first one side, then the other, sucking hard, biting, licking. Greg moans and arches into Mycroft’s mouth. ‘Good boy,’ he gasps, ‘Harder.’ Mycroft sucks and bites and licks harder.

Greg disentangles himself and strips out of his jeans. His cock juts up, thick and long and _so wet_ and _so hard_. He wraps his arms around Mycroft to help him upright, kisses him fiercely, then, with his hot hands on Mycroft’s ribs, says, ‘Hold onto the handlebars, Michael. There’s my angel.’ Mycroft obeys.

Mycroft hears the luggage pod pop open and then close, then hears the lid of a bottle of lube open, and a moment later Greg’s fingers are pushing between Mycroft’s cheeks, against his hole, rubbing, massaging. Greg kisses Mycroft’s neck and shoulders and back, and Greg’s fingers push inside his arse.

Greg gets on the bike behind Mycroft, settles comfortably, urges Mycroft, with hands on his bum and thighs to rise up a little, rearranges the T-shirt more effectively across the leather seat beneath him, and gets back to the glorious work of preparing him.

Mycroft starts to push back against Greg’s fingers.

‘Please sir,’ he says, ‘Gaz. Please. Teach me to ride.’

‘Here we go, honey.’

Greg takes Mycroft by the hips and guides him backwards. Lets go with one hand to hold himself, to guide himself in as he guides Mycroft down.

Mycroft lets out a shuddering, hitching cry of wanton satisfaction as he sinks onto Greg’s cock.

‘That’s it baby. Now up.’

Mycroft, feet braced against Greg’s lower shins (Greg’s feet rest on the stops), pushes up. Greg and gravity pull him back down.

They do this for a leisurely while. Greg mutters endearments. Mycroft moans and sporadically remembers to say ‘oh god, sir, Gaz, I like this. I like to ride’.

‘Stay up, angel,’ says Greg, ‘Gotta change gear.’

Mycroft grabs hold of the handlebars and rises. Behind him, Greg changes position, braces himself, then starts to fuck Mycroft. He can’t do that for long in this position, but he holds onto Mycroft’s hips and thrusts, four, five, six times. Then he eases back and says, ‘Ride, angel. Ride me.’

They’re in their rhythm now, and Greg leans his back against the pod, braces his feet and thighs on the bike. Mycroft, steadying his hands on the handlebars, his feet on the sides of the bike, rolls his hips and uses his legs to rise and push down, and he _rides._ He rides like he was made for it.

Greg shifts slightly again, reaches around, and now Mycroft fucks himself on Greg while Greg pulls on Mycroft’s cock until Mycroft cries out, ‘Greg, yes, yes, fill me, fill me up, I want it, I want it, I want all of it, fuck me, fuck me,’ and comes all over the tank.

Trembling, he leans forward, hanging onto the handlebars for dear life, while Greg makes a final shift, holds Mycroft tight by the hips and thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, whispering Mycroft’s real name, “Mycroft, fuck, baby, yeah yeah, Jesus, so beautiful. Gorgeous. Angel. Fuck. Fuck. Love this. So hot, you’re so tight baby, my cock feels so good in you, my angel, so good, you’re so good.’

His angel, who agrees one million percent on how good Greg’s cock feels in him, thrusts back to meet Greg’s pumping hips, and then Greg is coming too. (The T-shirt over the seat saves the leather. The tank can be easily wiped up later.)

After, Greg sinks back onto the seat again, arms around Mycroft’s waist, drawing him back against him, and they lay panting together in spent, happy lassitude.

A good thing it’s warm in the garage. They tried this in winter once and while Melbourne doesn’t get as cold as it does in Europe, they damned near froze their bollocks off all the same.

Greg starts to laugh. He kisses Mycroft’s ear, the side of his neck. ‘I consider this new motor bike duly christened.’

‘God bless her and all who sail in her,’ agrees Mycroft, wriggling to settle closer against Greg’s body. They’ll have to move soon.

Greg smooths his hands over Mycroft’s belly and thighs. ‘You’re my angel,’ he says softly, ‘I love you.’

Mycroft turns his head to kiss Greg’s jaw. ‘You’re my everything,’ he says, ‘I love you too.’

**Author's Note:**

> Various tattoos  
> The stylised Harley:  
> 
> 
> Nath Holden's work:  
> The winged jewel on Greg's back  
> 
> 
> Mycroft's teacup:  
> 
> 
> Mycroft's scissors (only his does not have the blood)  
> 
> 
> Nath Holden is a gifted artist and if you like his stuff, he sells prints of some Star Wars and Game of Thrones stuff, among other things. I've put links in the [ Captains of Johnlock tumblr post.](http://captainsofjohnlock.tumblr.com/post/135757111298/221b-hound-these-images-relate-to-an-upcoming)


End file.
